


Seorsum - You're in Supernatural - Season 2

by whitehopper



Series: You're in Supernatural [Dean x Reader] [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:44:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitehopper/pseuds/whitehopper
Summary: The effects of the car crash take hold, sending the Winchesters and Y/n to the hospital. Tensions high and everything on the line, Y/n is forced to step back and consider which path she wants to lead: the dangerous life of a hunter or the sheltered, comfy life in Idaho.-DISCLAIMER-This series was written purely for enjoyment, and I do not claim any of this story as my own except for the background of Y/n and her character.Any comments with spoilers will be deleted!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Second book of the You're in Supernatural series

Tales of Don Quijote replayed in Y/n’s head as she approached the motel room, the lights illuminating a rustic yellow in the dark. Y/n knocked on the peeling door with bronze numbering indicated that, yes, she had found room 7 and she reflected on the past two weeks of her summer wasted at a college camp to strengthen her writing skills. 

“Y/n, this is hardly acceptable,” her grandmother scolded, shaking Y/n’s end-of-the-year junior report card in her fist. “Your english grade is on the verge of an A minus!” 

To hell with whoever thought it would be a good idea to show the letter grade  _ and  _ percentage.

Y/n studied Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Hemingway, and read classics such as  _ 1984, Crime and Punishment,  _ and  _ The Count of Monte Cristo.  _ Doing so in just a span of two weeks, her brain sizzled after the demanding camp. 

Y/n yearned to see Dean and the growing Sammy, who was now an inch or two taller than her. Determined to see her childhood friends to pacify her gnawing hunger for  _ fun _ , she tracked John down to a small town on the outskirts of Maine and booked a flight there soon after. 

Y/n knocked once more and called out, “Hello?” 

There was no response. 

Y/n’s brow knitted in confusion. One of the boys should have answered the door by now, or perhaps they were already sleeping. No, Y/n shook her head. Dean never went to bed until his father returned from the hunt, even if John didn’t return until the next morning. Dean would stay awake, watching over his little brother. 

Hesitantly, Y/n twisted the brass handle, the hinges squealing as the door slowly opened. “Hello?” Y/n called again, eyes adjusting to the dark. 

She could barely register the dark room before a gun barrel gleamed in the door light. Y/n instinctively pressed herself up against the wall, avoiding the bullet by a hair as it whizzed pass her and the shot echoed into the parking lot.

“John?” the sixteen year old cried, heart pounding. 

“Y/n?” a gruff voice replied. There was a clunk as the lights turned on and a shuffle of feet. Y/n willed herself to look into the doorway, scared to come face to face with the nozzle of a shotgun, but instead the door swung open to reveal a scruffy John Winchester. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I came to visit the boys. Why the hell did you shoot at me?” Y/n whispered harshly, aware of the thin motel room walls and how easily conversations can travel through them.

“I thought you were something else.”

Y/n’s mouth gaped. “What?”

“A werewolf,” John replied, a hard stare piercing Y/n’s eyes. 

“Why on earth would you think that? Did you miss one--are you being followed?” Y/n asked, panic rising in her throat as she looked behind her. 

“No, I--” John contemplated on telling the girl about her eyes and how they seemed to glow when she opened the door. 

A brilliant ring of a light, cream yellow circled around the pupil of Y/n’s eye. John’s pulse increased,  _ A shapeshifter?  _ There was no way, he realized, that a shapeshifter’s eyes would appear to glow to the human eye without a camera lens. But then how… 

John glanced at the light above them and sighed with relief.  _ Just a trick of the lights.  _ “The boys are at Pastor Jim’s.” 

He rubbed his eyes and answered Y/n’s question before she got the chance to ask it. “I’m alright, I’m alright.” He exhaled slowly. “It’s been a long night,” John said, locking this night to memory though he nor Y/n would ever speak of it again.

 


	2. In My Time of Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning of every season I’m going to try to update you on the ages of the characters. Since a year has passed throughout season one, Dean is now 27, Y/n is 27, Sammy is 23. If you have any questions regarding dates and whatnot, feel free to comment or message me privately!

_ Dean slouched against the left side of the back seat as you applied consistent pressure to his wound, tears falling from your eyes. You’re pretty sure the only thing that’s preventing Dean from drifting off into sleep is the uncomfortable pain he’s in. Dean weakly finds your free hand and squeezes it. You muffle a sob by biting your lips.  _

_ “Look, just hold on, all right?” Sam tells his father who sits in the front passenger seat. “The hospital is only ten minutes away.” _

_ “I’m surprised at you, Sammy. Why didn’t you kill it?” John questions his son. “I thought we saw eye-to-eye on this. Killing this demon comes first--before me, before everything.” _

_ Sam glances at you and his brother through the rearview mirror. “No, sir, not before everything,” Sam replies. “Look, we’ve still got the colt. We still have the one bullet left. We just have to start over, all right? I mean, we already found the demon once--” _

_ And in a split second,  _ _   
_ _ everything changes.  _

_ A semi truck plows into the right side of the impala and doesn’t stop moving until both cars are far off the road. The collision travels at least a quarter mile before everything stops moving. John’s head rests against the front dash, and Sam slouched to the side, head pressed against the cool glass of the front door. Dean sat underneath the crumbled up door of the right side, body pinned in place; he beared the most damage during the crash, plus his added wounds from the fight before.  _

_ Y/n sat to the left in the backseat, behind Sammy, her hands folded in her lap while holding onto the gauze she held to Dean’s wound. She passed out like the others, but had minor injuries save for her fractured forearm.  _

_ And the semi truck driver,  _ _   
_ _ his eyes are black as night. _

~~~

"It's truly remarkable. I've never seen a fracture heal so fast. Are you sure you're not taking any steroids?" 

You look up from your arm that you've been poking and squeezing, testing its ability to function, and are met with the eyes of a jovial doctor. You smile weakly and shake your head. 

"Nothing but the occasional ibuprofen," you reply honestly. 

"Well, you're one lucky girl. In all my years, no one has ever left a severe car accident and walk away with just a scratch. Seems like your my first."

You nod, listening with one ear, as you look out the door of your hospital room. In a different room down the hall, hooked up to multiple machines, lies Dean Winchester. Somewhere out there is Sammy, probably talking with a nurse about expenses and the conditions of his brother and father. But all you can see is Dean Winchester dying in the backseat of the car as you wrap him in gauze.

"So am I free to go then?" you ask, glancing back at the doctor. 

The doctor blinks, follows your gaze out the door, then smiles. "You can go visit your friends. I’ll have one of the nurses come in and collect your insurance information in a little bit."

"Thank you,” you reply before darting out of the room. You nearly barrel into Sam. 

“Whoa,” Sammy gasps, grabbing your shoulders before you can topple over. “What’s the rush?” 

“I need to see Dean,” you reply breathlessly, glancing around the tall Winchester. 

“Well, slow down. We can go see him together,” Sam says. 

You nod, inhaling deeply. As you and Sam walk down the hall, you nibble on your bottom lip, trying not to focus on the chaos around you, the bustling nurses, the incessant beeping of monitors, and the muffled sobs from the occasional room. 

“Here,” Sammy says, turning into a room. 

You follow closely behind but stop in the middle of the doorway. You could picture Dean Winchester stitched together, breathing through a tube, and various IVs sticking in his arms, but seeing it in person struck you. As you slowly knelt beside the hospital bed, shaking like a wet leaf after rain, the finer details come to your attention: dry blood stained Dean’s cheek as a scab forms, the large cut from his hairline to the tip of his eyebrow was stitched together, the five o’clock shadow on his jaw from the lack of free time. 

You hold his cold hand in yours. 

It was Dean in that bed. It was Dean who bared the worst of the crash, not you. It was Dean who was sprawled out on the left side of the car, and you in the right side tending to his wounds. Dean was on the left side of the car when--

“Your father’s awake,” the doctor says, standing in the doorway of the room. 

Sam turns to face him as you continue to stare at Dean’s pale face, rubbing his knuckles with your thumb.

“You can go see him if you like,” the doctor adds. 

Sam looks back at Dean. “Doc, what about my brother?”

“Well, he sustained serious injuries--blood loss, contusions to his liver and kidney. But it’s the head trauma I’m worried about. There’s early signs of cerebral edema.”

_ Cerebral Edema: fluid in the brain causing pressure build up and swelling, difficult to treat, irreversible damage. Can be fatal.  _

Your mind blanks as you think of studying for med school. 

“Well, what can we do?” Sam asks. 

“Well, we won’t know his full condition until he wakes up.” 

Sam nods, trying to grasp the unknown state of his brother. 

“If he wakes up,” the doctor adds solemnly. 

“If?” 

“I have to be honest. Most people with his degree of injury wouldn’t have survived this long. He’s fighting very hard. But you need to have realistic expectations, son,” the doctor explains to Sammy. 

You rise to your feet, standing stiffly. You wipe your eyes and address the doctor. “He’s going to wake up,” you state, voice breaking. 

The doctor smiles at you sympathetically, oblivious of the world you and the boys were raised in; one of monsters, magic, and alternatives.

~

You reluctantly leave Dean’s side and follow Sammy to John’s room. The conversation Sam had with the doctor replays in your head, sending you into a spiral of helplessness. 

_ What can we do?  _ What happens to Dean is out of your control. You can’t wrap him in gauze or stitch him back together this time. You glance at Sam, covered in bruises and cuts that gleam in the harsh lighting of the hospital. You can recognize his tense shoulders even under his jacket. His face is blank, but you know from experience that his mind is running at a mile a minute, terrified.

You recall your father, Matthew, facing the red-eyed figure with the same expression on the night of his death. You had felt helpless then and made no attempt to save your father in the slightest, paralyzed by your fear. 

You clear your throat, coming up with a way to help out the Winchesters. You grab Sam’s arm and stop him in the middle of the hall. “You don’t need to worry about the medical bills. I can cover them,” you say softly, earnestly. 

“Y/n, you don’t have to do that,” Sam replies, but you insist. 

“Sam, please. Let me do this, let me  _ help _ ,” you beg, eyes wide and brimming with tears. "I need to help."

With softening eyes, Sam understands and nods his head. You release a shaky breath and attempt to smile, whispering a quiet thank you before continuing to John's room. 

~

“Alright, here,” John says, taking out a card from his wallet. “Give them my insurance,” he says, handing the card out to Sam. 

“It’s been taken care of,” you reply, a shy smile on your lips. 

“Y/n, you don’t have to-”

“I want to. It’s no problem, really,” you reassure the man. 

He smiles, tucking the card back into his wallet and placing it on the bed stand. His gaze downcast, John sighs, a visible sadness creasing his aging face. “So,” he starts as Sam sits in the chair next to the bed, “what else did the doctor say about Dean?” 

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing.”

A shocked expression flashes across John’s face before he looks back down at his chest. 

“Look, if the doctors won’t do anything,” Sam shrugs, “then we’ll have to--that’s all. I don’t know, I’ll find some...hoo-doo priest and lay some mojo on him.”

“We’ll look for someone,” John agrees.

“Yeah,” Sammy whispers. 

“But, Sam,” John pauses. “I don’t know if we’re going to find anyone.”

“Why not? I found that faith healer before.”

“Alright, that was one in a million,” John replies. 

“So what? We just sit here with our thumbs up our ass?” Sammy counters.

“No, I said we’d look,” John repeats himself, gaze hard. “Alright? I’ll check under every stone.”

“From the hospital bed?” you question. 

John glances at you and your red eyes from crying and wiping at them with your sleeve. He sighs but a hint of a smile twists his lips. 

You smile, despite the situation, and gaze around the room. Somehow, John’s room is brighter than Dean’s with sunlight pouring in through the open-curtained windows. John’s room lacks the chill that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand that haunted Dean’s room. 

“Where’s the colt?” John asks, devoid of emotion from his lack of tone. 

Sam shifts in the chair, unsettled, irritated. “Your son is dying, and you’re worried about the colt?”

“We are hunting this demon, and maybe it’s hunting us, too,” John replies, harsh but logical, cautious. “That gun may be our only card.”

“It’s in the trunk,” Sam says defeatedly. “They dragged the car to a yard of I-83.”

“Alright, you got to clean out that trunk before some junk man sees what’s inside,” John orders. 

“I already called Bobby,” Sam replies. “He’s like an hour out. He’s gonna tow the impala back to his place.”

“Alright.” John pauses. “You go met up with Bobby. You get that colt and you bring it back to me. And you watch out for hospital security,” he tells Sammy. 

Sammy smirks, confident in his abilities. “I think I’ve got it covered. Y/n, you coming with?”

You glance at the young Winchester, conflicted. The image of Dean lying around in his hospital room crosses your mind. “I think I’ll stay here. You know, keep an eye on things, let you know if anything happens.”

From their creased brows and concerned eyes, you can tell that the Winchesters are trying to map out if you’re truly okay. With the amount of heartache and loss you’ve endured over the past month, anyone would be worried about a loved one who put forth such a selfless role, giving themselves up when they need compassion and reassurance the most. 

“Okay,” Sam finally says. As he makes his way out the door, his father stops him. 

“Hey,” John says. He hands Sam a piece of paper that was turned over on the bed stand. “Here. I made a list of things I need. Have Bobby pick them up for me.”

“ _ Acacia? _ ” Sam reads. “ _ Oil of Abramelin?  _ What’s this stuff for?” 

“Protection,” John replies. 

You side eye the man, recognizing the ingredients and his lie. 

Sam takes another step before stopping. He sighs, “Hey, Dad...you know the demon? He said he had plans for me and children like me.You have any idea what he meant by that?” 

“No,” John shakes his head, “I don’t.”

Sam accepts this, though heavy hearted, and exits the room. 

You turn to John once you’re sure Sam is far enough away from the room so he won’t hear you. 

“For someone whose life depends on fraud, you are one shit liar,” you state. 

John scoffs and shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

You frown. “Look, I’m not asking you to tell me the truth, but you need to be honest with your sons. Is there really a point in lying to them anymore?” 

“Yes, their protection.”

“Really? Just like those summoning ingredients you gave to Sam?”

John mumbles under his breath, but you continue. 

“John, keeping these secrets isn’t going to keep your boys out of this fight. Please be honest with them. That’s all I ask,” you plead. 

John nods grimmly. “You’re right.”

You glance around the room and sigh. You nibble on your bottom lip, nod, and met the gaze of the old hunter. "Alright. I'm gonna go check on Dean. Let you know when he wakes up."

The hospital light gleams in John's eyes, reflecting the somber understanding inside them. He nods and closes his eyes, as if sensing that you could see right through him. 

As you travel down the hall, you stop at the first floor to visit the small gift shop, stuffed animals and balloons posed in the wall length window. Just as you wished, a small book shelf sits in the back of the shop, stories of miraculous medical recoveries, children's books, and classics. 

And to your surprise and relief, a single copy of  _ The Da Vinci Code.  _ The peculiarity of this seemed to slip your mind as you giddily purchased the book, eager to finally keep your promise to Dean made a while ago. 

You whisper a quick thank you to God, a practice your grandmother instilled in you at a young age, especially in times of gloom. "Always be grateful for the tiny victories and say your thanks," she would say.

As you return to Dean's room, you pause in front of the door, telling yourself that his condition is only temporary and that he will get better. You couldn't even think of the alternative. 

Your hand suddenly the weight of one thousand bricks, you open the door, heart dropping to the floor. Although you had seen him just moments ago and heard the diagnosis, your heart couldn’t help but unrealistically expect to find Dean sitting up right in the bed, a confused scowl on his face as he wiped the sleep from eye his. And just like countless times before, reality failed to meet your expectations. 

You release a shaky breath and pull up one of the guest chairs to the side of the hospital bed. You sink into the blue cushions and prop your elbows on the bed next to Dean’s arm. 

“I know this is a little overdue but,” you sniffle, hot tears welling up in your eyes as you wipe your nose, “a promise is a promise.” 

You open the book and begin to read,  _ “Renowned curator Jacques Sauniere staggered…” _

As you read, you’re hyper aware of a familiar presence in the room, one of aftershave and soft flannels, greasy cheeseburgers and cheap beer.

 Seconds turn into minutes, and minutes into hours, as you gradually lose yourself in the story. Every once in a while, you glance up at Dean, checking for a reaction or stir. Of course, nothing happens, so you continue to read, thankful for the escape. 

Down the hall, Sam walks into his father’s room, duffel bag stuffed with the requested ingredients. Sam stares out the window, lips pulled into a tight thin line. 

“You’re quiet,” John observes. 

Sam turns around with the expression of a whipped dog, betrayed by his owner. Sam throws the duffel bag on the foot of the hospital bed. “You think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, quiet with anger. 

“What are you talking about?” John replies, voice brittle. 

“That stuff from Bobby,” Sam explains, gesturing towards the door, voice rising, “you don’t use it to ward off a demon--you use it to summon one. You’re planning on bringing the demon here, aren’t you, having some stupud macho showdown.”

“I have a plan, Sam,” John replies.

“That’s exactly my point,” Sam erupts. “Dean is dying, and you have a plan! You know what, you care more about killing this demon than saving your own son!”

“Do not tell me how I feel! I am doing this for Dean,” John replies.

“How? How is revenge gonna help him? You’re not thinking about anybody but yourself. It’s the same selfish obsession,” Sam shouts, pointing an accusing finger at his father. 

“That’s funny. You know what, I thought this was your obsession, too. This demon killed your mother, killed your girlfriend. You begged me to be a part of this hunt!” John says. “Now, if you killed that damn thing when you had the chance, none of this would have happened.”

“It was possessing you, Dad, I woulda killed you too!”

“Yeah, and your brother would be awake right now,” John argues.

Sam, taking his father’s blame like a slap to the face, replies, “Go to Hell.”

“I should have never taken you along in the first place. I knew it was a mistake!”

As John rambles on, the glass of water sitting on the bed-tray flies across the room, shattering on the ground. 

You look up from your reading to check on Dean, willing for just some movement, when his heartbeat flatlines. 

“Help...Help!” you cry, pushing the red emergency button on the side of the bed. Tears roll freely from your eyes as you grip Dean’s hand and plead for him to wake up. A squad of nurses and the doctor rush inside, readying their equipment for an electrical cardioversion. 

You step outside, not wanting to be an obstruction, and wipe your eyes, sobs wracking your body. They send a shock to Dean’s body: nothing. 

Sam runs down the hall, checking on you before looking into Dean’s room. Tears brim his eyes as he mutters a desperate prayer. Another shock to Dean’s body. And another. 

“We have a pulse. We’re back into sinus rhythm,” a nurse alerts the doctor. 

As you weep into Sam’s chest, the familiar presence returns. 

“Can you feel him, too?” you as Sammy in a whisper. 

“Yeah,” he replies, just as softly, “yeah, I can.”

~

With the ouija board between your crossed legs, centered in the middle of you and Sam, you hesitantly place your hands on the planchette. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask Sammy who shifts in his spot. 

He shrugs. “I hope so.” He glances at you. “Well.”

“You start,” you say quickly, eyes wide, “I’m not inviting any demons into my life.” 

“Right, ‘cause you already have enough of those,” Sam remarks in a teasing way. 

“Samuel Winchester--”

Sam inwardly cringes. “Okay, okay. I’m starting.” He shakes out his arms and places his hands on the planchette. “Dean.” Sam exhales slowly. “Dean, are you here?”

Hands resting on the planchette, your eyes dart to Sammy, expecting a movement that doesn’t come. “What now?”

“Give him a second,” Sam whispers. 

The planchette moves under your itchy fingers, smoothly over the board. “Oh my god! Sam?” you yip, wide-eyed. 

“Is that you?”

“No, are you moving it?”

“No!”

The planchette stops on “yes.”

A giggle escapes you, one of relief and gitters. Sam laughs with you, a smile on his face. “It’s good to hear from you, man. It hasn’t been the same without you, Dean.”

“Dean,” you breathe. Words struggle to form on your tongue, recovering from the shock that the ouija board works and that Dean can communicate with you. The ache in your chest that normally makes you want to cave in on yourself is now replaced with an ache created from a full heart, an ache you’re willing to carry. 

Planchette moves again, spelling out the word “hunt” letter by letter. 

“‘Hunt?’” Sam reads. “What, ‘hunting?’ Are you hunting?”

“Yes,” the planchette moves. 

You shift in your spot. “Damn, can we ever catch a break?” you mutter. 

“Dean, it’s in the hospital, what you’re hunting--do you know what it is?” Sam asks in a hurry. “What is it?” 

The planchette spells out “reap”.

“A reaper,” Sam whispers. 

You and Sam exchange perturbed glances. 

“Dean,” you start, the following words leaving your mouth like a thick, bitter syrup, “is it after you?” 

“Yes.”

“If it’s here naturally, there’s no way to stop it,” Sam says. 

You turn frigid, like you were suddenly thrust into a large freezer, your insides prickly. “Don’t say that, Sammy.”

“No. No, no, no, no. There’s gotta be a way,” Sam mumbles to himself, as if he’s alone in the room. He gets to his feet. “There’s gotta be a way.” 

“Sam,” you say his name, brow furrowed. 

He stops in the doorway, and for a second you think he heard you. “Dad will know what to do,” Sam says, leaving the room in a hurry.

“Sammy!” Paniac fills your gut as you clamber to your feet. “Ah shit,” you hiss as you step on the planchette and stoop down to quickly pick up the ouija board. Your habit of swearing when stressed gets the best of you. You set the ouija board aside and chase after Sammy. 

You run into him, standing in his father’s doorway, the bed a mess of blankets and John nowhere in sight.

**[SIX YEARS AGO - HAILEY, IDAHO]**

“We are deeply sorry for your loss, Ms. Y/l/n. Your grandmother was... a spirited woman.” The lady known as Blanche Roberts took a moment to dab her eyes with her expensive black silk handkerchief. An extravagant mourning cap which did a poor job of hiding her heavy mascara rolling down her cheeks donned her head. Her husband stood stiffly behind her, slightly to her side, critical eyes looking over the room. 

As Blanche’s sobs grew louder and gained looks from the few guests that now waited their turn to share their gratitude, Greta leaned closer to you as whispered in your ear, “Crocodile tears.”

Your lips twitched as you suppressed a smile. 

“May she find her George in Heaven,” Blanche weeped, hands reaching towards the sky dramatically. 

You nodded sincerely, taking Blanche’s hands in yours. “Knowing my grandparents have been reunited in Heaven has brought me great peace during this time of mourning,” you say, a line your crafted so well you could hear your grandmother saying it. “Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. “I know my grandmother would have appreciated it.”

“Aw, child,” Mrs. Roberts cooed, running a hand on your cheek like a soothing mother. The gesture would have been nice from anyone else, but as the expensive silk glove touched your cheek, your skin chilled. “We’ll keep in touch.”

As Blanche and her husband left your grandparents’ mansion that would soon be yours after a few papers were signed, the walls seemed to grow taller and the floor swayed beneath you like sea of emotions storming inside you. 

A warm hand squeezed your arm, and you locked eyes with Greta. 

“Dear, are you alright? Why don’t you go take a seat in the parlor?” Greta suggested. 

You heard your grandmother’s chiding voice in your head, “A good hostess nevers sits down unless it is to join a conversation or if the last of her guests have left.”

You shook your head and forced a smile. “I’m alright, Greta.” You added controversially, “I guess Blanche has that effect on people.”

Whether or not Greta noticed your forced smile, she didn’t show it. She rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t I know,” she agreed with a wicked grin. 

The rest of the guests slowly found their way over to you and shared their prayers and thoughtful words before leaving. After a long hug with Greta and a kiss on the cheek from Charlie, the Hartmanns crossed the road to their mansion, leaving you to your lonesome for the night. 

You checked your phone, relieved to see two unread messages: one from Sammy and one from your boyfriend of three months. 

_ Y/n, I’m so sorry that I couldn’t make it to the funeral; college applications took up way more time than I expected and school just started. Call me when you get the chance _

A smile formed on your lips as you read Sam’s text, tears fell from your eyes. You’d call him later. 

_ Hey babe. Can’t make it tonight, practice went longer than I expected. Love you _ _   
_ _ Noah _

You bit your bottom lip, drawing blood. “Shit,” you uttered, sucking on your bottom lip as you typed up a quick reply. 

_ I understand. The funeral was good. Love you too _

You floated around the room as you picked up abandoned plates and cups, weightless despite your heavy heart. Checking out as you completed the mundane task, your body went into autopilot. For the first time in a long time, loneliness finally found you, clasping its suffocating fingers around your heart. 

As you placed the last of the dishes in the sink, you allowed yourself to cry, and really cry, for the first time today. Your body shuddered with each sob that slammed your heart against your ribcage. Clasping your hands around the edge of the kitchen sink, you tried pitifully to grasp reality, like a kitchen sink would save you from the soap-opera-worthy mess of your life. 

You willed yourself to lift your head and look out the window above the sink your grandma spent so many evenings looking out of. From here, the mountains in the distance looked storybook, with trees painting the sides a memorizing shade of green. Even in the dark, taking on a jagged silhouette, the mountains seemed beautiful and grounding. 

“Okay, Y/n, time for bed,” you heard your grandmother say, her kind voice lulling you away from the window and towards the sunroom where you could bask in the mountains’ glory and bathe in the moonlight. 

Before you could finally make your way over to the sunroom to finally take up Greta’s suggestion, a knock at the door stilled you. 

You sniffled, mind turning on, adjusting your black dress and its long sleeves. You blew your nose and wiped your eyes, patted down your hair, as you briskly walked to the door. 

You mind raced with possible visitors: was it Greta, did she forget something? Or had Noah decided to show up and be a supportive boyfriend? 

As you opened the door, heart pumping from the idea, a man who was a horrible texter turned his head to the door, just as startled as you. 

“Dean?” you said, keeping a hand on the door, afraid you’d fall over if you didn’t. He wore a black button up, something he wouldn’t typically have in his wardrobe, and a dark wash of jeans and his familiar work boots. He looked handsome. 

Guilt washed over you for thinking such a thing when you have a boyfriend, and a blush burned your cheeks. 

“Hey, Y/n,” Dean said, a sadness in his voice as he looked you over. 

“Are those clothes new?”

He chuckled at your observation and looked down at himself self-consciously. “Yeah, yeah they are.” His eyes narrowed as he inspected your face from a distance. “Were you just crying?” He glanced at your lips, but his eyes quickly returned to them when he spotted the crimson gash on your bottom lip. “And was your lip bleeding?”

“Yes and yes,” you sighed. You laughed halfheartedly, touching the cut on your lip. “I might’ve nibbled my lip too hard.”

“Ya think?” Dean snickered as he steps closer to you until there’s only a foot between you. He gently places his hand under your chin, tilting your head towards the porch light, and gingerly touching the cut on your lip with his thumb. 

You ignored the heat that erupts as his thumb touches the sensitive cut, but focused on the heat that seeped through his fingers and into your body, spreading like an intoxicating wildfire. You searched his eyes as he studied your lips, caught in a trace. His tongue skirted across his lips in concentration or lust, you couldn’t tell. His freckles were prominent in the overhead light of the porch, and through his long eyelashes, his eyes gleamed and shifted between a bright emerald and a dark forest. 

His eyes finally met yours, and you held each other’s gaze for a moment, waiting for the other to make their move, if one should even be made. 

His hand dropped from your chin, and the crisp night air bit at where his warmth once was. 

“I’m sorry, Y/n,” Dean whispered, still holding your gaze. “About your grandma.” 

You inhale slowly and exhale, breaking eye contact with Dean. “Thanks,” you replied weakly. “She’s been gone for a week, but I still… it still doesn’t feel real.” 

“I know, I know,” Dean said, rubbing your arms. As your bottom lip began to quiver and you looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, Dean pulled you into him, ran his hands through your hair. As you cried into his chest, Dean skillfully lead you inside, closing the door behind you, and to the sunroom. 

Your calmed down as you sat on the loveseat, wiping away your tears. “Thank you for coming, Dean,” you said, voice thick with your grief. 

“Of course,” Dean said, smiling genuinely as he sat next to you. “Dad, wanted to come tomorrow but I… I couldn’t wait.” There was a slight blush on his face as he looked at you.

You smiled. Suddenly hit with the emotional weight of the day, you sighed. “I’m so tired.” 

"Do you wanna go to your room or…?"

"No," you breathed, eyelids fluttering as you looked at Dean, "right here is fine."

In a wordless understanding, you and Dean shifted on the couch, laying side by side, your back flush against his chest. Had it been a different friend of yours, the position would have felt weird, too intimate, but with Dean, such things came and felt natural. 

Normally, Dean's presence would have brought peace to your mind, but that night your thoughts plowed on, conjuring up the guilt you had covered up for so long. 

"Dean," you whimpered, unable to fight back the tears again. "Is it bad to feel relieved?"

Dean adjusted his arm under your head, prompting you to turn and look into his eyes. "No. She's no lingering suffering--you should be relieved," he said earnestly. 

You exhaled slowly. "I am, but… while she was here, I felt this pressure to maintain this image, this perfect granddaughter. And now that she's gone, now that the funeral's over, I guess that pressure left along with her."

You paused, chewing your bottom lip, tasting the iron of your blood. "I feel guilty...and selfish."

"Y/n," Dean whispered, "you don't have to feel guilty about your feelings. Hell, your grandma is probably secretly relieved that you won't have to continue to socialize with all of her fake friends. I wouldn't let it worry you too much."

And even if it didn't completely thwart all of your guilt, Dean's words reassured you. 

"Thank you, Dean," you said. "For being here."

"Always."

**[PRESENT DAY - THE HOSPITAL]**

A familiar slap of guilt wracks your body as you will yourself to ask a selfish question. “Sammy, can I have a minute alone with Dean, please?” 

Sam’s eyes flicker down, studying the small portion of your face visible to him. “Yeah, of course,” he responds after a moment of silence. “I’ll get us some coffee.” 

“Thank you,” you whisper, shutting your eyes as a tear rolls down your cheek. As Sam leaves the room, you reach for Dean’s cold hand and hold it in yours. You rub your thumb over his knuckles, something Dean often did to calm you down. 

“Dean,” you breathe, “I don’t know what to do.” 

A sob escapes you, but you quickly collect yourself and continue. “Your dad is missing--Lord knows what he’s getting into. And Sammy and I…” you hesitate. “I don’t know what we can do to help you. Sam’s beating himself up over it.” 

You release a shaky breath. “And I...I thought I knew what helplessness was when you were dying before, but this…” You wipe your nose and sniffle. “I don’t know if there’s anything we can do this time. But you’re strong, Dean--the strongest man I’ve ever met. And I know you can beat this.

“I don’t know if you can hear me right now, but, Dean, please.  You can’t go now, not after you got the gang all back together. You and Sammy and finally brothers again. And we--you and I--I haven’t even told you I love you yet.”

You hold your breath, waiting for Dean to wake up just like a scene from a movie, but he lies still, monitor beeping steadily. You gulp down the sobs that rushed forward and wipe your eyes profusely. “So please keep fighting--for John and Sammy. And for me.”

You bring his hand to your lips, kissing the pale fingers gently. “For us.” 

**[END OF EPISODE ONE - IN MY TIME OF DYING]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this isn’t the technical end of the episode, but I seriously could not bring myself to continue writing this chapter. I need to move on to the next one before I lose all passion to continue this series. 
> 
> Wow that sounded really pessimistic, but I promise I’m not. I do plan on writing more seasons and finishing this series. Unfortunately, as I apply to colleges and finish my senior year of high school, this Supernatural Rewrite is not one of my main priorities. I will try to write as much as I can however. 
> 
> The next chapter will be even more flushed with emotions and drama so stay tuned! Thank you for being patient as I get my life in order. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you haven't read the first book, I highly suggest you do.


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